


The Deep End

by deixisdyad



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Hate Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Roughness, Some Humor, These Guys Loved Each Other 2k17
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 06:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deixisdyad/pseuds/deixisdyad
Summary: "His eyes pass over the biotic grenade stockpile next to his rifle. Getting low. Not worth wasting one on Reaper’s mess, not for this. Whatever this is. But it’s familiar, and that troubling thought nags at Jack’s brain.How long has it been since they’ve donethis?"For the R76 Kink Meme





	The Deep End

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate the latest R76 news, I've decided to revise and de-anon this ongoing kink meme fill :)

Jack Morrison isn't one to believe in fate, and he’d be the first to say it. Making hard choices was a reality he learned young on the farm. You ride with the blows life deals you season by season, the bad winters and the high seed prices. The muckraking in the papers. The team that went missing in an arctic storm. Fate is what people rely on when they want to dodge responsibility. Jack had once been responsible for the entire world. He knows how to roll with the punches.

Some were easy to predict. Others were harder. At present, one has him pinned against a damp city wall with his clothes halfway off.

Jack should have seen it coming.

“Nice of you to show up in this weather,” Reaper hisses, as the tips of his gauntlets run over Jack’s chest in a distracting way. There goes his shirt. “You’ve got an easy blind spot.”

“You’ve got a hard time dodging a left hook,” says Jack.

“That’s big talk coming from you. We both remember Giza.”

Jack’s pistol is somewhere on the ground. It’s too dark to see everything around him this late in the evening, and it's hard to turn his neck much in this position. The bricks in the wall smell like paint fumes and rain. Reaper has a smell all his own that Jack can't name.

“You were never as good in a fair fight,” Jack manages. He tries to free his hands from how they're pinned to his chest by Reaper’s strong arms. No luck. “Why don’t you kill me now, get it over with.”

“I’m savoring the moment.”

“Go to hell.”

“Sure. I’ll see you there.”

His pulse rifle is another matter. Jack knows it's about fifteen paces on his nine, seven if he sprints. It's still where he threw it after Reaper landed the first blow in the fight. If he waits for an opening, he could break off and make a dash for it. If Reaper would stop pressing up against him for a hot minute. Jack twists a foot back around Reaper’s knee. Reaper rewards him by grabbing his wrists and slamming Jack forward into the wall with his body weight. Their hips grind together. One of them groans.

They continue to pull at each other and claw and struggle until their pants are down and one of Reaper’s hands is a vice at Jack’s waist and he's thrusting between Jack’s thighs in a punishing rhythm that Jack can feel in his entire body. Jack’s hips arch and push back at the contact, at how Reaper’s skin isn't right, doesn't feel how skin’s supposed to feel. His mind spins. The firm, solid weight of his pulse rifle back in his hands is almost a tangible thing, but it's never quite the right moment to make a break. There's always a well-angled thrust. Or a noise Reaper makes in the back of his throat. And then…

Jack’s gaze drops down to his own dick, flushed and out in the open. Traitor.

The sun’s set now, and like a pressure building in the back of his skull, something in Jack urges him to get things over with. He pushes back against Reaper’s thrusts, wants him away, wants him to finish, to go faster, faster, wants it harder, inside - no, no, not that, not - but he wants -

“Hurry up,” Jack grinds out, brain pulled in five different directions.

“I don't take orders from you,” he hears from behind him.

“I’m bored.”

“That why your legs are shaking?”

“You're heavy.”

“You like it.”

Jack clenches his thighs in retaliation, and Reaper swears against his neck, hips moving faster, his weird, wrong skin shifting every time Jack feels it against the bareness of his lower back, pace frenetic and erratic and unsustainable-

Reaper doesn't touch him at all before he sinks his teeth into Jack’s shoulder and comes, and it’s wet and warm between Jack’s legs.

What should be a relief to Jack is disappointment. Reaper’s breath heaves in his ear, but it begins to even out. Jack’s mind drifts to forbidden places, stripes of sunlight across white sheets and the smell of toothpaste that didn't belong to him. In the real world, it's dark and dirty and rough.

And then silent, almost as if-

Jack realizes he now stands there with the night air his sole companion, face and body still pressed up to the wet bricks of the wall. There's a tremble in his legs, and they slip and stick together. He doesn't move. Cold air bites at his skin.

Somewhere to his right, a cicada chirps.

 _Well,_ Jack thinks then, very alone and very, very hard.

_Fuck._

 

 

The bunker on the outskirts of the city is a temporary setup. Jack shutters the old trap door closed. His visor he places on the rickety folding desk against the far wall.

He finished off back in the alley, quick and unsatisfying. Tucked himself back in, zipped his pants, grabbed his guns, and set off. No more work to be done tonight, not with the shape his legs were in. And his knees, he had to admit, aren’t what they used to be.

Harsh light from the floor lamp casts thick, black shadows on the dirty dented walls as Jack assesses the damage. Shirt’s ruined. Not only is his chest scratched up, but his shoulder’s marked with punctures and the brownish stain of dried blood.

Teeth, Jack thinks with some disgust, should not be that sharp.

Bad news comes daily in times like these. A bottle of contraband sits beside Jack’s cot. But Jack’s already battling a headache, and whiskey’s likely a poor idea for a dehydrated man…

He caps the bottle again after several generous gulps. The burn in his throat’s a decent distraction.

 _Tell me you’ll keep yourself out of trouble on your own, Jack,_ Ana told him earlier that week, before she left to scope out her new mark. Too risky for them both to hole up in an enemy territory’s sniper nest. Jack got a stern look in his direction. From across their table he sipped his tea and told her she worried too much.

Jack fingers through the gaps in his tattered shirt and grazes the ragged edges.

The crick in his back he tries to ignore when he takes a seat and kicks his dirty boots off. The fastenings on his sleeping bag prove difficult for his fingers. Maybe the whiskey was a bad idea.

He changes his mind when he slips in and the fabric runs against the long scratches on his chest and he sucks in a breath. The whiskey was an excellent idea.

His eyes pass over the biotic grenade stockpile next to his rifle. Getting low. Not worth wasting one on Reaper’s mess, not for this. Whatever this is. But it’s familiar, and that troubling thought nags at Jack’s brain.

How long has it been since they’ve done _this_?

A soft mattress. The sweet, heavy scent of instant coffee percolating in the other room, warm skin pressed against Jack’s chest. A really, really bad joke that Jack would still laugh at.

God, the puns were awful. Just terrible. Jack grimaces.

Another voice creeps in. Jack tries to keep it away. This isn’t a place he wants to visit, but that door can’t be shut now. The laughter’s quiet and full, and it had matched its owner’s brown eyes; Jack remembers they were large and dark and suggestive, and how the skin at their corners crinkled from smiling. When Jack rolls onto his side the sleeping bag’s rustle almost sounds like the bedsheets that had shifted over their bodies when hands slid from chest to waist, then lower -

Jack looks down and, shit. Why is his palm over his crotch.

Why, Jack asks himself, is he half hard.

When, in six years, did surrender become an option?

Well. Jack doesn’t sleep much these days, anyway. He tugs his pants down and gets to work.

His hand’s fine enough, but his body wants more. There’s an ache impossible to ignore when it spreads to every inch of him, demanding attention. But Jack lacks the equipment to fulfill it. He needs an alternative.

Spit, then. A lot of it. Jack presses a wet finger against his entrance, then inside, just the tip. Wrapped in his sleeping bag, dick in his fist and a finger pushed in him, he’s pretty sure this is a personal low.

But he doesn’t stop.

Is there some messed up equivalent to the grief cycle for his situation? There should be. Five stages of your undead ex hunting you down and leaving you to finish yourself off all over a brick wall after he fucked your thighs raw. Neatly listed in a pamphlet. Fuck, one finger is frustrating. It’s not enough. And it’s downright unfair that Jack’s body remembers the perfect way he would move inside Jack years and years ago, and the comparison to Jack’s own inadequacy in this department at the moment doesn’t help one bit. His wrist will be sore for days.

He's not getting any harder. God damn it.

Jack growls and surrenders to erection purgatory. He lets go of his dick after a disappointing last-ditch stroke and withdraws his finger with reluctance. It wasn’t much. Barely stretched him out. But the emptiness afterwards is unbearable. The emptiness that eats at you from the inside out until all of you is hollow and aching. It has Jack grinding his teeth so hard he swears he can hear them creak against each other.

Jack remembers how Reaper felt thrusting between his thighs earlier that night, but he also remembers one lazy morning in bed, 25 years ago, when Jack moved the same way against _him_ , loving _that man_. Loving him used to be so easy.

Whiskey, round two. This time, Jack finishes the bottle. He grimaces. The problem with having a super-soldier's metabolism is alcohol’s benefits never last long enough.

The floor lamp powers off when Jack flips its rear switch, pants still tangled around his knees. The total dark is stifling, but there’s a comfort in it Jack hadn’t noticed before now. He rolls over in the cot and lets his eyes fall shut, watches the afterimage of his mess fade from the inside of his eyelids. His fingers brush against the mark on his shoulder.

Gabriel Reyes is dead, but Jack might as well make use of what’s replaced him.

**Author's Note:**

> from the R76 kink meme prompt: 
> 
> _[Dubcon, Intercrural] Reaper fucking 76 behind an alley way_  
>  _\+ Bonus points for Reaper getting off between Jack's thighs_  
>  _++ More Bonus points if 76 has to walk it off_  
>  _+++ Good job well done sticker if once back to his hideout 76 fingers himself open in his caterpillar cocoon but is left unsatisfied_  
>  _++++++ Trophy if 76 goes hunting Reaper for the dick the next night_
> 
> the final part will be posted as a second chapter with a bonus interlude I've had to put in because These Guys Loved Each Other and I'm emotionally compromised - thanks everyone who may have been waiting on this for your patience! tags will be updated accordingly.


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